For Better Or Worse
by LaDuchesseHumfrey
Summary: The good times. The bad times. The times when they almost held hands. Set during the Christmas Special. Mr Bates and Anna-related angst.
1. Chapter 1

**This story is dedicated to all the Loganites. Being, like Phyllis, not very computer literate, I am not on Tumblr but I really appreciate all your wonderful blogs or should I say Phlogs! Thank you! **

**Of course, these wonderful characters are entirely the property of Julian Fellowes. **

It wasn't until he saw her face that the full horror of the day struck him. He had heard the verdict, of course. It had been he who had answered his Lordship's brief and sombre telephone call; he who had passed on the bare and bitter fact to her Ladyship: Bates would hang. But, he had not quite believed it, not quite understood the appalling truth of these words, until he saw her standing in the Servants' Hall, pale, exhausted, despondent.

The staff had crowded in to hear the news, pouncing upon the housekeeper and Miss O'Brien as they came through the door. She was speaking when he arrived; her voice cracked and strained,

"With kindness, I hope."

He watched their reactions: shock, sadness, a disbelief mirroring his own, and yes, amongst a few younger ones who had barely known the valet, a frisson of macabre excitement:

"When will he be hanged?"

It felt cruel to ask her, so soon back, before she'd had time even to take off her hat and coat, but he had to do his duty.

"Her Ladyship wondered if you could give her an account of the day?" he said, as gently as he could.

She gave a small sigh, and nodded, "Of course."

He turned to leave, stopping to let her go before him into the passageway, but she had not yet finished.

"I'd like to say,' she said, more strongly, stepping forward, "I may have been called for the prosecution, but I do not believe in Mr Bates' guilt."

She walked out of the hall, then, her hand covering her mouth. He followed as she made her way quickly to her sitting room,

"Let me help you off with your coat."

She paused, allowing him to take it from her shoulders, and began to unpin her hat.

"You'll be tired," he said. "It must have been a most difficult day."

She bit her lip and looked down at her hands, shaking her head slightly.

"I'll just pop to the washroom to make myself presentable, Mr Carson, and I'll be right up."

"Thank you," he said, giving her a small smile, before she hurried away. "Her Ladyship's in the library."

He wasn't below stairs when she returned from her meeting with the Countess. He had been in the dining room, checking the table settings. The circumstances certainly did not warrant multiple wines at dinner.

He went down to the kitchen to remind Mrs Patmore that Lady Rosamund did not take dessert.

"Oh she'll want some when she sees it," said the cook wryly. "She always does."

"Has Mrs Hughes come down?" he asked.

There was a pause.

"Yes," said Daisy hesitantly, "she was..." She trailed off at a look from Mrs Patmore, who walked over to the range.

"Here," the cook said firmly, pouring water from the kettle into a tea pot, "you'd better take her this. She's had a long and tiring day." She placed the pot on a tray laden with cups, a jug of milk, and a bowl of sugar, and put it into his hands. "There's enough for two!"

He knocked briefly on her door, as best he could when carrying a load, and pushed it open. She was sitting at her desk, ostensibly studying her linen book, but her head was in her hands.

"Mrs Patmore thought you could do with some tea," he said. "She's given me a cup too, if you don't mind me staying. His Lordship's not back yet."

She took a moment before turning round to face him.

"Not at all, Mr Carson. Thank you very much." Her voice was steady, but he noticed, her eyes were red. She got up and made to take the tray from him.

"No, don't you worry," he said. "You've done enough for today. Sit down. I'm perfectly capable of being mother."

She smiled fleetingly at this, and went to sit on her sofa. He passed her a cup of tea, then poured one for himself, and sat down opposite her on one of the stiff backed chairs.

"Her Ladyship said they wouldn't be dressing for dinner," she told him, "so I've sent Miss O'Brien to bed for a few hours. She's not one to admit defeat, I dare say, but she looked worn out. I'll call her down once they've finished dinner."

She took a sip of tea, and sighed.

"You should follow her," he said. "There's nothing left to be done tonight, that can't be done in the morning."

She shook her head, wearily, and he could see the grief in her eyes,

"I must be here when Anna gets back. The poor, poor girl..."

He didn't argue, nor did he ask her, once again, to give an account of the day. He didn't need to hear the details. The fear, the anguish, and the tragedy of trial were all written in her face.

"I think I'll send everyone to bed early this evening," he proposed. "I won't have the hall boys sitting around and talking all kinds of nonsense about Mr Bates."

"They don't mean any harm, Mr Carson," she said quietly. "They're just young and curious, and it's natural that they should be disturbed by such extraordinary events. They feel better talking it out."

"Perhaps so, Mrs Hughes," he replied, not entirely convinced. "But I don't think it quite appropriate tonight."

They were silent for a while, the only sound the chinking of china.

She glanced up at him several times, as if she wanted to say something, but couldn't quite summon the words. He waited for when she was ready.

"I..." she began, then stopped and stared at her lap. She tried again, but with little success.

"What is it?" he asked softly.

She took a deep breath,

"I'm frightened, Mr Carson. I don't know what I can say to her."

He gazed at her, confused.

"To Anna? I doubt she'll hear any words that are addressed to her tonight. All she'll need is a comforting arm to guide her upstairs and perhaps something to help her sleep."

She was looking at her lap again. He tried to reassure her.

"Lady Mary is with them. I know what you think, Mrs Hughes, but she's very fond of Anna. She'll be a help, and so will Mrs Crawley."

The housekeeper didn't look up, but concentrated upon the teacup in her hands.

"And tomorrow," he continued, "let Anna take the lead. She'll take some time to recover from the shock, that's for sure, but she's brave. She won't give up hope. I am confident that his Lordship will do everything he can to overturn the verdict."

She did not stir.

"If she needs advice, Mrs Hughes, she knows she can turn to you. Anna knows you're on her side."

To his great consternation, she looked up at him then and her eyes were brimming with tears.

"No, Mr Carson," she almost whispered. "No she does not know that. Not after today."

She bent her head again, and put her hand to her face.

In incomprehension and concern, he reached out to take her other hand, but was stopped by a sharp knocking at the door.

"Mr Carson?" called Thomas' voice. "Mrs Hughes?"

She stood up hastily, and turned away from the door as it opened, blowing her nose with her handkerchief.

Thomas poked his head into the room.

"His Lordship has returned, Mr Carson. He's in the drawing room with Mr Crawley. Lady Mary's taken Anna straight to her room, Mrs Hughes. I thought you'd like to know."

"Thank you, Thomas," he replied curtly.

The housekeeper did not turn round.

The footman lingered,

"Shall I get Daisy to take Anna up a tray?"

She faced him then, face white, mouth set in the thin line, composed and resolute.

"No, no, I don't expect she'll be wanting anything. I'll go up to see her now myself."

The footman departed.

"Mrs Hughes..." he started, but she cut him off.

"I'll go now, Mr Carson."

A jingle of keys and she was gone.

With a heavy heart, he gathered up the tea things and switched off the light.


	2. Chapter 2

She ascended the stairs as swiftly as she could. Her head was spinning; her mind reeling.

_I don't know what I can say to her. _

He was right, of course. Tonight was not the time for encouraging, counselling, or even comforting words. Anna wouldn't hear them. It wasn't the time to ask for forgiveness, if forgiveness could be given.

_It is a time of grief, Mrs Hughes; of grief and heartbreak. _

Not for the first time in her life, she felt a real, physical pain in her chest; the nagging, clenching ache of misery and the bitter pang of guilt.

She stopped on the stairs and took a deep, steadying breath. Better to be practical, almost mechanical, tonight. Better just to carry on regardless. If she played the business-like housekeeper, she could cope. If she let herself think – care – feel – she was sunk.

She continued rapidly towards the attics.

As she approached the top landing, she heard a noise on the stairs and came face to face with Lady Mary.

"Oh Mrs Hughes. Have you come to see Anna?"

"Yes milady."

The young woman's face was flushed.

"I've just left her. I helped her into bed, and Mrs Crawley managed to persuade her to take a sleeping draught. She should get some rest now. She's asked me to leave her alone."

She hesitated, and glanced at the housekeeper.

"I don't think she can face seeing anyone else tonight."

Elsie did her utmost to remain impassive.

"Very well, milady," she said quietly. "I quite understand. I only came to see she had all she needed."

"I think she does," Lady Mary responded. "She didn't want any food or drink. I tried to get her to eat some soup before we left the inn, but she barely took a spoonful. I didn't want to force her."

She seemed anxious to talk.

"She was much, much calmer on the way home, once the initial shock had passed. Mr Murray assured her that he will do his best to fight. He's going to see the Home Secretary himself."

She paused and shook her head,

"I can't imagine what she's going through inside."

For a moment, Anna's anguished screams in the court room rang in Elsie's ears. She felt suddenly lightheaded and reached out to grip the banister.

"I know, milady," she heard herself reply, "but I'm sure you've done all you can tonight."

The dizziness did not disappear. She chastised herself silently for having gone up the stairs so fast. To her relief, Lady Mary seemed not to have noticed anything untoward.

"I've told Anna that she's only to return to her duties when she's ready. I expect she'll want to visit Bates at once."

Elsie swallowed,

"Of course. Miss O'Brien will assist your Ladyship and Lady Edith in the meantime."

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes." Lady Mary gave her a small smile. "I had better go down for dinner."

Elsie nodded acceptance and waited for her to depart, her knuckles white on the banister. She felt far too unsteady to let go just yet.

But Lady Mary lingered alongside her.

"Mrs Hughes?"

She turned slightly to meet the other woman's gaze, ready for another instruction.

"Yes milady?"

Lady Mary regarded her steadily.

"Do try to get some rest yourself. I know it wasn't an easy day for you either."

Elsie was sure, afterwards, that surprise must have been plain on her face. Before she could respond, however, before she could stammer acceptance or denials, Lady Mary was gone; her footsteps echoing on the stairs.

Still gripping the banister for support, she lowered herself gingerly until she was sitting on the top step. Her head began to spin a little less. She berated herself for such weakness. What was the matter with her? A fat lot of good she would do to poor Anna, the family, or anyone in this state. What an impression she must have given to Lady Mary! Show some backbone, Elsie Hughes, she told herself sternly. You don't know yet that he will be hanged.

Hanged!

The horrifying word sent a shiver down her spine.

It might never happen. It wouldn't happen. It couldn't.

Poor Mr Bates! She thought of him, cold, alone, _betrayed_, in a dismal cell.

_I wish to God I'd never listened. _

She had never held any truck with aristocratic privilege, but she prayed now, prayed fervently, that Lord Grantham's name would influence the Home Secretary.

Oh, when would they know?

She looked down at her hands.

Well, it won't speed up matters, you sitting here, said a sharp voice inside her head.

It sounded like her mother – so, so, long ago.

Surely you've got plenty to do! Get up! Get at it! Be off with you!

Like the ghost of that obedient child, she stood at once, smoothed her dress, and carried on.

He didn't see her again until supper. As she slid into her chair in the Servants' Hall, he stole a quick look in her direction, trying to determine from her expression the outcome of her meeting with Anna. She looked calmer than before, more guarded perhaps, but her eyes were still darkened by sorrow.

They were a subdued bunch tonight. He seemed to have intimidated the younger boys and maids into silence, sharply announcing before they sat that he didn't want any idle chitchat about Mr Bates. Banned from dissecting the story of the moment, they made a few half hearted attempts to discuss Christmas presents and their (extremely unlikely as things stood) plans for the Servants' Ball. Even the weather, growing steadily chillier and bleaker, failed to sustain conversation for long.

Surprisingly, Thomas too seemed disinclined to comment, snidely or otherwise, upon events. Miss O'Brien was also quiet. She sat stiffly, staring blankly in front of her. He had been forced to repeat her name twice before she passed him her plate.

The dominant sound was the scraping of cutlery. Mrs Patmore had made stew. It was very tasty, just the thing for a cold night, but he found, unusually for him, that he had little appetite. Looking to his right, he saw her picking at it listlessly.

"Did Anna have all that she needed?" he asked, softly.

She put down her fork, as if grateful for an excuse to stop pretending to eat.

"Lady Mary and Mrs Crawley had already sent her to bed."

"So you didn't see her then?"

"I saw Lady Mary," she said curtly. "She said that Anna was settled for the night."

He was pleased that his claims about Lady Mary's affection for the housemaid had been vindicated, but this was no occasion for another round in _that_ battle with the housekeeper. He knew she would have wanted to have seen Anna herself; that perhaps she needed to. He looked at her sympathetically, trying to tell her that he understood.

"I'll see her in the morning, Mr Carson," she told him evenly, her blue eyes meeting his.

She gave a small nod as if anxious to reassure him – as if anxious to reassure herself – that this would be alright:

"It will be better in the morning."


	3. Chapter 3

**I apologise for the delay in posting this chapter. Blame work! Thank you so much for the lovely reviews. I really appreciate them. A little more angst for now, but the better times will arrive eventually! **

The morning came both too soon and not soon enough.

She hadn't wanted to go to bed so early. Her body craved rest but her mind needed distraction. She had told herself to behave as normal. Next week's food order. The accounts. A replacement saucer for the Sutherland tea service. If she kept busy, she wouldn't think about Mr Bates. It could be the end of any other day.

She had admitted defeat when the linen rota had begun to swim in front of her eyes and he had appeared in her doorway.

"I've sent them all to bed. Shouldn't you be going yourself?"

She had risen wearily,

"I think I will, Mr Carson."

Once in bed, however, sleep had refused to claim her. When she closed her eyes, a thousand different moments sought to replay themselves inside her head.

_But you __**were**__ listening, Mrs Hughes, so please tell us what he called her when he grew angry..._

She saw the cold, hard sneer of the prosecuting barrister.

_Did he threaten to strike her?_

Mr Bates' slight nod as she had looked at him, caught in a trap.

_They twist your words. _

The hint of reproach in Mrs Crawley's helpless _'Well...' _

_John Bates, you have been found guilty of the charge of wilful murder..._

The poor man's stricken face as they dragged him away.

She opened her eyes, attempting to dispel these horrors, and stared into the darkness. But now, potential scenarios were playing in her ears.

_You mustn't get up today if you don't want to. _

She could try to be matter-of-fact.

_We're all so terribly sorry._

Kinder, but a little detached.

**_I'm_**_ so terribly sorry._

Should she? Could she, say that? An apology felt so hollow, so insubstantial. Was it selfish, perhaps? Would it be rejected?

She tried everything to block the noise out, shifting constantly. She buried her head in the pillow. She sat up straight. She drank a glass of water. She tossed and turned some more. Still the past and future voices refused to be quiet. Still her clock ticked. Still the night dragged on.

She eventually drifted to sleep towards four o'clock. It seemed barely an instant before she was jolted awake again by the sound of Daisy's footsteps in the corridor. The girl took care to tread softly, but there was barely a morning when Elsie failed to notice her. She had become conditioned into waking with the lark. This did not worry her. She liked to lie there in the silence of the great house and contemplate the day ahead: the calm before the storm.

Today, though, there was no calm.

She got up at once and lit the lamp. It was still dark and her room an icy cold. She could hear rain beating down on the roof. She washed and dressed quickly. Black for mourning. Black to match her mood. As she finished pinning her hair, she heard Daisy return to knock on the housemaid's doors.

Six o'clock.

She stepped outside her room and a short way along the corridor. There was no time like the present.

She tapped lightly upon Anna's door. Receiving no response, she quietly eased it open and peeked inside. To her surprise, Anna was sitting stiffly on the edge of her bed, fully dressed in uniform, neat as a pin.

"May I come in?"

The housemaid did not stir.

Elsie took this for assent and crossed the room.

"Whatever are you doing up and about at this hour?! There's no need!"

She sat herself down on the other, empty bed opposite Anna and studied her carefully. Her eyes were red and bloodshot, but her jaw was set. She looked determined.

"I woke early," she said coldly.

"There's no need," Elsie repeated in a gentler tone. She cut off Anna's attempt to protest.

"I..."

"Their Ladyships don't expect you to work this morning and neither do I. Just take your time. I'll bring you up some breakfast."

"I want to work," Anna interrupted loudly. She stared at the housekeeper in defiance.

"Well, you don't have to start now," Elsie said soothingly. "Get some rest before this afternoon. His Lordship has kindly offered his car to take you to the... to... to York in time for visiting, so you won't have to rush to catch the train."

"I want to work," Anna insisted. Her voice was firm, her gaze resolute, but Elsie saw how she clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. The dear, brave girl.

"You're in no fit state."

Anna's eyes flashed, momentarily angry.

"I will work, Mrs Hughes," she said, standing up. "I must."

Elsie also rose to face her, accepting defeat.

"Anna, I..."

She felt overwhelmed with guilt, shame, compassion. The words caught in her throat. She reached out to touch to other woman's arm, to show her by gesture her sympathy, her remorse, her support, but Anna flinched and moved away. Stung, Elsie withdrew her hand and bit her lip hard.

There were a few moments silence. She was aware of Anna watching her.

"Well," she said, as briskly as she could, "if you're sure, let's go down for breakfast. Mr Carson won't be kept waiting."

He was astonished to see her enter the Servants' Hall accompanied by Anna. Most of the other servants were already seated and Daisy was starting to fill the tea cups.

The room fell suddenly quiet.

He looked at her enquiringly and she shot him a fierce look. He collected himself.

"Good morning, Mrs Hughes. Good morning, Anna."

He felt he should say something more, but he wasn't sure what. There was an awkward pause. Anna stared down at her plate. Miss O'Brien shifted uneasily in her chair. He heard the drum of Thomas' fingers on the table.

He was saved, unexpectedly, by Daisy. Too busy looking at Anna, she had failed to concentrate on her teapot and Miss Shore's cup had started to overflow. Tea cascaded into its saucer and onto the table top.

"I said POUR them cups of tea, Daisy, not DROWN them in it!" Mrs Patmore cried, sending the unfortunate kitchen maid scuttling to fetch a cloth.

The silence broken, they began to eat. Even Anna took a piece of toast. She chewed it slowly, mechanically, staring straight ahead with unseeing eyes.

At the other end of the table, the junior housemaids began to discuss plans for their next half day. He was amazed at their levity. The troubles of the house seemed to weigh upon them so lightly.

At his end of the table, however, all was quiet. Oddly, but gratifyingly, Thomas was holding his tongue, apparently preoccupied with his own thoughts.

"I didn't expect to see you downstairs," ventured Miss O'Brien after a while. He was surprised at the unusual softness in her tone.

Anna appeared not to hear.

For a brief moment, O'Brien's usually inscrutable face displayed a modicum of distress. Taking a glance to his right, he saw the housekeeper watching this reaction.

"Anna will be going to York this afternoon," she said quietly. "She would like to work this morning."

She looked in the housemaid's direction, perhaps hoping for affirmation, but her words also remained unacknowledged.

He wondered at the wisdom of allowing Anna's wish, given that the housemaid was quite evidently – and understandably – distracted. Yet, he admired her commitment and sympathised with her motives. After all, had _he_ not found comfort in his work on many occasions over the decades when the world seemed to be tumbling about his ears? Did he not, amid such disruption and anxiety in the house, find comfort in it today?

He was roused from these musings by the ringing of Lady Mary's bell.

Anna stood up at once and pushed back her chair.

To his left and right, Miss O'Brien and the housekeeper also started.

"Stay!" He heard the plea in Mrs Hughes' voice. "You haven't finished your breakfast. I can go this once."

"No, I'll go," proposed the Ladies' maid, almost simultaneously. "I've done it often enough."

Shaking her head, Anna stuck out her chin and started walking out of the Hall.

Her path was blocked by Daisy, no longer burdened by the offending teapot. The girl seemed rooted to the spot.

"Oh Anna," she blurted out rather breathlessly. "I am ever so sorry for Mr Bates. I can't stop thinking about him. Will you tell him that when you see him later? Will you tell him?"

The housemaids stopped chattering abruptly.

He saw Anna stiffen; her hands balled into fists. Miss Shore let out an audible gasp. He glanced rather helplessly at Mrs Hughes.

"Thank you, Daisy," she said, firmly but not unkindly. "We all are thinking about Mr Bates. Now, do please let Anna get on."

Daisy made to move out of the way, but the head housemaid grabbed her hand.

"No," she said, "no. It's very kind of you to say that, Daisy. I will tell, Mr Bates. I know you would never wish him ill."

She gave the kitchen maid a tiny smile, then left the room.

The younger housemaids immediately started whispering to one another. He was about to reprimand them, when he caught sight of Mrs Hughes' face. She looked as if she had been slapped. Seeing him studying her, she turned to him and began to speak; her voice low and cracked.

"I would never..."

The bell from Lord Grantham's dressing room began to ring.

She stopped and sighed.

"Well off you go too," she said with forced jolility. "And I will get started as well."

They rose in unison.

"There's no rest for the wicked, Mr Carson," she added, almost sadly. "No rest for the wicked."


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you again for following and for your lovely reviews. A little longer chapter this time. And still they wait for news...**

**x**

It turned into the most frustrating of days. Nothing was as it should be.

Lady Mary did not appear at breakfast. Yet he knew the hour she had rang, and he saw her, pale-faced and clad in black, slip out into the rain.

The fire in the library went out and he had to send for Daisy to rebuild it.

The clock in the hall stopped and Thomas was nowhere to be found.

The Dowager arrived, but there was no one to receive her.

And still they were waiting... waiting for Mr Murray.

At lunchtime, he had smashed a glass. A small mistake, perhaps, and not in his Lordship's presence, but its unusualness irked him. As he swept away the shards, he heard her voice in his head,

_If there's one thing I hate, it's an atmosphere..._

About which long forgotten crisis had she spoken these words? He could not recall it now. They had witnessed so many tribulations as butler and housekeeper, so many calamities which became trivialities, so many paltry quarrels which rapidly soured. But he knew they had never witnessed anything like this.

He hated this atmosphere. He hated his Lordship's repeated glances at his pocket watch as the afternoon shadows lengthened; hated the way his heart lurched at the telephone's ring; hated the curious mixture of relief and despair he felt when he heard the butcher on the line. And most of all, he hated its effect on her.

If he was feeling tense, upset, ill at ease, he knew she was feeling worse. He could sense her wretchedness. She went about her duties with her regular efficiency, of course. She was a little sharper with the maids, perhaps, a little more impatient. When Lord Hepworth's bed linen wasn't ironed by lunchtime, she made her displeasure known. Yet, it was the smaller things that showed him her distress: the stiffness of her carriage; the shadows under her eyes, the way she twisted her napkin in her hands. She wasn't eating again. He watched Daisy clear her untouched plate. _Waste not, want not, Mr Carson_, she had told him more than once. She saw him watching, and almost as if she'd read his mind, she gave him a pleading look. _Let me be_, it told him. _Just this once, let me be. _And she rubbed her hand across her brow. And he said nothing.

**x**

He was angry. How had it come to this? His Lordship's valet condemned for murder!

He was not angry at Mr Bates. No. Charles Carson was quite convinced that John Bates was a good man – a wronged man. He had been sceptical at first about his suitability for Downton, it was true, but not for long. Mr Bates had proven quiet and dignified. He had worked hard and well. His respect, indeed his affection, for his Lordship was clear. With regards to his estranged wife, in the most difficult of circumstances, he had acted with honour. And yet somehow he had been punished, trapped, blamed for her death. Somehow he had been handcuffed and dragged away. Somehow he was now facing a hangman's noose. It was all wrong. It was so unfair. How could this be?

He had known some seedy types in his time, men with very loose notions of legality and even looser morals. Charles Grigg had been the least of them. The music hall stage had sheltered many criminals. He had shared dressing rooms with petty thieves, fraudsters, and pickpockets. He had cowered from fights of such ferocity that the participants barely emerged alive. He had once seen someone stabbed. Yet, none of these base and godforsaken characters had ever been hauled up for murder. None of them had been left counting the hours. There was no justice in the world. He could not fathom it.

His very powerlessness made him angry. Stolen wine, lost snuffboxes, slovenly footmen: these were problems he could solve. He could not free Mr Bates. It was with vigour, then, that he threw himself into the search for His Lordship's dog.

**x**

When they returned, their faces ruddied by the cold night air, he went straight to inform her of its fruitlessness. It was yet another aggravation, another stroke of ill fortune in this dissonant day. He was reaching the end of his tether. And there was still no news from Mr Murray.

"You'd think the good Lord would have spared him the loss of his dog at a time like this!"

She was pacing the floor of her sitting room, wringing her hands. He was so accustomed to her calm in a crisis; the way she mocked his righteous indignation, soothed his frayed nerves, gently proposed a way forward in hours of loss and strife. This palpable desperation pierced him and made him angrier yet.

"When will we hear about Mr Bates?"

If only he could give her an answer.

"...I suppose that will change, whe... if it goes ahead."

He noticed her little slip. Her hopelessness. He knew she couldn't bear it. He didn't need to be told.

It was almost a relief when she spoke then of Anna, but even the housemaid's emotions were too much for him. As always, he seized the refuge offered by practicalities. Focus upon the impact on the _house_, on the honour of the house, and it could be any other problem, any other day. Certainly, they would become notorious...

"... as the house that shelters her..."

Turning to leave, he was startled to see Anna standing in the doorway.

"Then let me put you out of your misery straight away, Mr Carson... by handing in my notice."

_His_ misery? The girl's face was ashen and her voice shook. As he ushered her wordlessly into the room, he looked searchingly at Mrs Hughes. Her expression was one of mingled shock and sorrow.

"You don't mean that," she said firmly.

"Yes I do," said Anna more strongly than before. "If I stay here, I keep the story alive. If I go away to Scotland, say, or London, it'll die soon enough." She gave a little nod, as if reassuring herself. "I'll just be one more housemaid, lost in the crowd."

He could understand this logic. It was a sensible response, indeed, the only practical response if the worst were to occur. But, as he commended it to the housekeeper, he half predicted its rejection. Tonight, her heart ruled her head.

"I mean it, Mrs Hughes. I do," repeated Anna, evidently struggling to keep her composure. She nodded again at them both, then her face crumpling, she fled.

He looked round and, expecting grief, was surprised by anger.

"You can't agree she should leave here?!" she nearly shouted at him, her blue eyes flashing. "You can't possibly think she ought to leave the people who know her, who _understand_, who..." She trailed off.

"It may be best," he said quietly.

"For whom?" she shot back. "For her? Or for you and for blessed propriety?"

His mouth fell open and he stared at her, speechless. She bit her lip and bowed her head. There was a brief silence.

"I'm sorry, Mr Carson. That was unfair."

She turned away from him and went to stand at the fireside.

"You're tired," he said, "and anxious. We all are. The family too."

She made a small noise at this. He was unsure whether it was a rebuking snort or a muffled sob. She had her hand to her forehead again.

He struggled to think of something to say. Words of comfort seemed so trite, so inadequate.

"Is everything prepared for Lord Hepworth?"

The old refuge again. He cursed himself for it.

She remained at the fireplace.

"Well, I think we all know that he has his _sheets_, Mr Carson."

Her words were teasing, but her tone was almost bitter, exasperated.

He fell quiet again, and stood their awkwardly, holding his coat and hat. It was curious, he thought, that he felt the need to speak, to engage her in conversation, however meaningless. They had shared so many moments in easy, companionable silence, yet this quiet was uncomfortable. He knew he should talk, but not what to say.

"Mr Crawley came up to the house after dinner specially to see Lady Mary."

Now that was gossip, and of gossip, he strongly disapproved. It was not only unlike him, it was completely contrary to his declared – his loudly and frequently declared – principles. What would she think? What's more, it was gossip about, Lady Mary! What was the matter with him? Why was he telling her this?

"My, my," she answered sardonically. "How thrilling!"

He let that pass and tried another tact. The obvious resort of the struggling Englishman.

"The weather's closing in," he said. "It may well snow before too long."

She did not react at all to this. Still unconvinced, he hesitated, then decided to leave her alone. He ought to check the search party had received their soup. But before he moved, she spoke,

"We can't let Anna leave, Mr Carson... _I _can't"

She had turned from the fire and fixed him with her gaze. Her voice was steady, but her eyes implored him to understand.

He felt a sudden urge to lay down his hat and coat, to grasp her hands in his, to tell her that yes, he did understand, but he could not agree.

In reality, of course, he did none of these things.

He took a small step towards her.

"You must let Anna make up her own mind," he said gently. "She may want to make a fresh start. We cannot offer her that here."

Her eyes flickered. He hurried on,

"It ishard. But it may be kinder to let her go. Besides..."

He was aware she was watching him intently. He tried to gauge her reaction.

"Besides, we do not know yet how things stand. His Lordship has not heard from Mr Murray. I have every confidence that Mr Bates may be reprieved."

Her eyes did not leave his face.

"Do you, Mr Carson?" she said, not in challenge, but softly, almost urgently. "Do you really?"

He could not in all honesty tell her whether he believed his own words. Once, he had had total confidence that his Lordship's position was respected, that his authority, that the skills of his lawyer, passed muster in the corridors of power. But nothing seemed certain anymore. Nothing in this post-war world was secure. How he wished it were.

Yet, as he looked at her – so uncommonly lost, so utterly forlorn – he felt a rush of compassion and he knew now what was needed.

"Yes, Mrs Hughes," he said as assuredly as he could. "Yes I do. We must not give up hope."

Her expression softened and she gave him a glimmer of a smile, the first he'd seen all day.

"Thank you, Mr Carson."

"For what?" he asked.

She shook her head and smiled a little more.

"For the reminder."


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you all again for following. Please review! I like to know what you think. **

She stayed in her sitting room late into the night.

She was not working. The linen had been organised; Mrs Patmore's food order made; the accounts checked and rechecked. In fact, she had been ruthlessly efficient in completing the tasks of the day.

She was not reading either, though an unopened novel lay on her side table. It was a red, leather-bound volume from the library upstairs: _Kim _by Rudyard Kipling. She found she liked adventures. She absorbed herself in tales of exotic, far-off lands, of people living so very different lives from her own. In her mind's eye, she could travel. Tonight, however, she was discouraged by the persistent headache which had dogged her all day.

She was too tired even to think. Yet, she dared not go to bed. In the light and warmth of her sitting room, she could almost stifle the voices. But upstairs... the cold hand of guilt tightened its grip around her heart.

So she sat instead, slowly making her way through the basket of downstairs darning: laddered stockings, shed buttons, a torn waistcoat. This chore was usually the lot of the lowliest of laundry maids. It had been a long time since _she_ had mended another servant's vest or re-hemmed a housemaid's slip. It was hardly a duty befitting a housekeeper. Yet, she had felt drawn to it now. It was oddly comforting to have something to get on with that required only her hands, not her brain. At the very least, the overburdened maids would get a pleasant surprise in the morning.

She hoped that Anna was asleep. The poor girl had barely uttered a word through dinner. White and drawn, she had gone immediately to her room once Lady Mary and Lady Edith had been settled for the evening.

_I wish to God, I'd never listened..._

_I wish to God, I could have spared her this..._

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, then opened them again, attempting to push these thoughts away. There had been no sign of Mr Carson. She suspected that he too was burning the midnight oil. Was he also reluctant to face another sleepless night? He had not sought her out. There had been no knock, no tea, nor even sherry. Who could blame him? She supposed she was hardly good company tonight.

She rethreaded her needle and took another item from the basket. At once, she recognised it as his handkerchief. It was old and fraying round the edges, its original white fading to cream, and it was torn right down the middle. Whatever had he done? How typical of him to try to salvage it! He surely had plenty of hankies. But this, of course, was precious to him. It had been a present from his Lordship. There were two Cs in one corner: specially embroidered with his initials, many, many Christmases ago.

_They're all the family I've got. _

She would never forget those words.

She began neatly to sew up the tear. Then, as carefully as she could, she started to tidy the edges. Her stitches were small, precise, painstaking. This hankie merited it. _He_ merited it.

She was so absorbed in her work, she did not hear his light tap, nor look up when he opened the door.

"Mrs Hughes? What _are_ you doing?"

She jumped violently.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

Faintly embarrassed, she glanced down at the handkerchief in her lap and gave a small shrug.

"I thought I'd give the laundry maids a hand."

He seemed somewhat bewildered by her answer, but did not comment. She noticed the weariness in his bearing and a light sheen of dust on his jacket.

"What have you been up to, Mr Carson?" she asked. "You haven't been working all this time?"

"I thought I would reorganise the wine cellar," he said. "It took a while. It should be easier to negotiate than it was."

Just as he had not challenged her unusual mending, she chose not to question his motivations for undertaking such an endeavour so late on a dark and freezing night.

"Well," she said, "now that's done, are you off to bed?"

"I think so," he said rather doubtfully. He did not move from the doorway. "Are you?"

She indicated towards the two items remaining in the basket.

"I'll just finish these."

She bent her head over the handkerchief again.

"Do you mind if I stay?"

He sounded as exhausted as she felt.

"Of course not."

He lowered himself to sit on one of the hardback chairs by her door and put his hands on his knees.

Together, they sat in silence. He watched as she darned a petticoat and patched up a holey sock. The last thread cut, she put away her needle and returned the neatly-folded, mended clothes to the basket. All of them but his handkerchief.

"Here," she said, handing it to him. "This can go back in your pocket."

As he looked down at her meticulous efforts, he was profoundly touched.

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes," he said with feeling. "It's almost as good as new."

"Nonsense," she replied briskly. "It's far from that. But it'll do."

He rose too, and took the basket from her to replace in the laundry room.

"It'll more than do. The maids would never have taken such time and done it so well."

Following him to the door, she switched off the light and gave a small sigh,

"It was a good distraction, Mr Carson," she said. "A good distraction."

**X**

Sleep had come, but it was fitful, and punctuated by vivid, harrowing dreams.

In one, she was walking along an alien, dingy road in a nameless, unknown town. Suddenly, she saw a figure, emaciated, lying in the gutter. It was Anna – she was somehow sure of it – though the girl's appearance was horrifically changed. She was still clad in her maid's uniform, though it was sodden and soiled. Her skin was leathery, grey, and paper thin. Her cheeks were sunken. Elsie was stunned, repulsed. She wanted to reach out to help, but was strangely pinned to the spot. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words would not come. Instead, Anna stared up at her with bulging, terrible, accusing eyes.

_Why? _she repeated again and again in a pitiful, childlike voice. _Why? Why? We could have been so happy... _

In agony, Elsie could only stare back.

Then, mercifully, the scene changed, and she was now walking along a bright, familiar road. The long country lane between school and the farm. She was a small child again, holding her mother's hand, and she was sobbing.

"What did I tell thee, Elsie Hughes?" her mother was saying sternly, but not without sympathy. "Nae good ever came from listening at doors."

She remembered the schoolroom, the tattling older girls within, their obvious scorn, and her crushing shame. She was scared and she was hurt.

"Someone will always pay."

She began to sob harder; tears, hot and salty, rolled down her cheeks. Blinded by them, she couldn't see her path. Her foot hit a jagged rock and she fell.

At this, she had jolted awake. Her face was wet and her pillow damp. She wrapped her arms around herself and curled into a ball.

_O God_, she had whispered into the darkness, more a plea than a prayer, _O God..._

**X**

When she awoke, the headache was still there – a belligerent, repetitive drumming in her skull. So too was the nausea. Even tea tasted bitter, unpalatable. _Like poison. _

She met him on the stairs as he returned from the upstairs breakfast. His face was white and he was muttering to himself.

"What is it, Mr Carson?" she asked, alarmed.

"False alarm," he grunted.

She looked at him, puzzled.

"Telegram!" He gave a snort of exasperation. "I thought it was... Turned out to be for Lady Mary. Sir Richard's arriving today, after all, not tomorrow as planned."

She rolled her eyes and sighed,

"He does like to make things easier, doesn't he?"

The butler pursed his lips.

"You know my opinion of the man, Mrs Hughes."

She jerked her head in acknowledgement.

"I do indeed, though why Lady Mary doesn't get rid of him, I'll never know!"

His eyes clouded over at her words, but he said nothing.

She sighed again,

"Well, I'll go and see to Sir Richard's sheets, Mr Carson."

"You _have_ got enough ironed?" he asked somewhat warily.

"Oh yes, don't worry about that," she replied with a wry smile. "Though it's a good job I bullied the laundry maids yesterday!"

Her keys jingled at her hip as she made to head down the hall. He descended the stairs to walk beside her,

"There is _some _good news," he said.

"And what's that?"

"Some of the village children have found his Lordship's dog."

The bleakness of the day momentarily lifted. She let out a small sniff of amusement, and he smiled at her, a slight twinkle in his eye.

"I'm so glad."

But anxiety fast reclaimed her.

"Yet _still _no word from Mr Murray!"

It wasn't a question. He went into his pantry and she hurried to the linen store.

**X**

She found Anna there, her arms full of pillow slips and counterpanes. Her lips were white and there were dark rings beneath her eyes.

_Why?_

The pleading, pitiful figure from her dream appeared before her and she blinked.

"Oh Anna," she said, rather breathlessly. "I've come to collect Sir Richard's bedding. It seems he'll be arriving today after all."

She shook her head,

"I suppose he'll want to be in Armada as usual."

She made towards the cupboard but the housemaid stopped her.

"It's fine, Mrs Hughes. I'm just off to do it now. I've already finished Lord Hepworth's."

Elsie was surprised.

"Thank you, Anna," she said vehemently. "That was quick work. But how did you know?"

"I saw Mr Carson with the telegram. I had to know it wasn't about Mr Bates."

Her voice wavered a little upon speaking his name.

"I watched him go into the dining room. And so I... I... listened at the door."

Anna looked up at these words and their eyes met. Her look was steady, inscrutable. Yet, Elsie's heart stabbed painfully.

They stared at one another.

A terrific crash came from the kitchen, followed by a screech.

"See Mrs Patmore," came the triumphant tones of Lady Rosamund's maid, "you _do_ need our Daisy!"

The cook gave a strangled growl in response:

"If you don't get out of here now, Miss Shore, I'll put _you_ under the daisies!"

There was another bang.

Anna raised her eyebrows and escaped upstairs.

Suddenly feeling overwhelmingly weary, Elsie leaned against the linen cupboard.

"And now," she murmured to herself. "Now, you've got to tell her Sir Richard will be at dinner!"

**X**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hello again! I'm sorry for the delay in posting. I got a new job which has swallowed a lot of my writing time! Slowly but surely I will finish this story though. Please keep reading. :) **

**x**

Following Miss Shore's banishment from the kitchen, an odd stillness fell below stairs. To Elsie's surprise and considerable relief, Mrs Patmore barely shrugged at news of another mouth to feed.

"The more the merrier, Mrs Hughes... though I admit, I'm not sure in the case of Sir Richard!"

"I am sorry to create more work," she reiterated nevertheless, biting her lip.

"It's not more! I always make extra anyway."

The cook put down her mixing bowl and looked at her sharply.

"And never mind apologising. It's not _your_ fault!"

She smiled weakly in response and rubbed her forehead,

"No, I suppose not."

_Not this time. _

**x**

The unnatural silence continued for the rest of the morning. As she sat at her desk amending the linen rota, the quiet became steadily more oppressive, almost cloying. Minutes passed – hours – where the only sounds were the patter of maids' feet in the hall, the scratching of her pen, and the endless ticking of the clock.

Waiting...

The whole house was waiting...

And yet there was still no news. She wondered why. What did the silence mean for poor Mr Bates? Time was surely ebbing away; the sand in the hourglass was almost run.

**x**

Before luncheon, she went upstairs for her daily meeting with the Countess to discuss the business of the house. Lady Grantham also seemed on edge, fiddling distractedly with her bracelet. When the accounts had been approved, she sighed and gazed out of the window onto the wintry lawns.

"Still not a peep from Murray about Bates. We shall have to announce that the Servants' Ball is cancelled this year."

"Yes, milady."

"I trust the provisions won't go to waste?"

"Oh no, milady. I'm sure Mrs Patmore will come up with something."

"Of course, it'll be terribly disappointing for the younger servants. I know how they look forward to it so. But we have no choice."

"No, milady. I'm sure they'll understand."

The Countess sighed again,

"His Lordship will be utterly devastated if Bates does..."

Her voice trailed away.

Elsie shivered. Lady Grantham turned from the window to look at her.

"How is poor Anna?"

Elsie wasn't sure how to respond.

"Very brave, milady," she ventured. "She's throwing herself into her work..."

She broke off.

"But what she's truly feeling... how she's coping... I really don't know."

The Countess nodded sympathetically,

"His Lordship was awfully upset to hear from Carson that she'd handed in her notice. I suppose we have to accept it? There isn't any way to change her mind? ...You couldn't...?"

A painful lump was growing in Elsie's throat. It made answering difficult.

"I think Anna is determined, milady," she managed.

Lady Grantham shook her head.

"It seems so wrong, Mrs Hughes. The girls are so fond of her. We all are. We'll be ever so sorry to see her go. I know you will be too."

Elsie swallowed,

"I will, milady."

She clenched her jaw. If Anna could show such courage, what right had she to flounder?

"Will that be all, your Ladyship?"

"Yes Mrs Hughes, for now that'll be all."

**x**

The afternoon was not so quiet. She could hear him pacing the corridor; sense his tension. She felt as if a spring were being wound, an elastic band tightened. Surely any moment it – he – _they _would snap.

He popped in once or twice, worrying about a hairline crack in a serving dish, wanting her opinion on the candelabra, complaining about Sir Richard.

The latter and Lord Hepworth had not arrived by six o'clock.

In a flap, he rang the station.

The train was delayed.

"It was an ill wind that ever brought that man to this house, Mr Carson," she told him bitterly. "If they're late, they're late. It's not fair to Mrs Patmore to delay the dinner."

She expected him to argue, but he nodded his head in assent.

"Oh no," he said with considerable relish. "We won't delay dinner. If they're that late, it'll be trays in the library. Let's see what he thinks of that."

**x**

In the event, and probably to his disappointment, trays had not been necessary, and dinner commenced as planned.

She remained at her desk, trying to decide whether to order the usual furniture polish or to experiment with a new, cheaper, and (at least the advertisement claimed) more effective alternative. It was an important housekeeping decision, one which required serious thought, but she found she couldn't concentrate. It all seemed so trivial now.

There was a knock on her door.

It was Anna.

"May I come in, Mrs Hughes? There's something I want to say," she blurted out in a rush.

"Of course."

Elsie stood up to meet her. She opened her mouth to ask whether Anna wanted to sit down, but the housemaid started speaking at once. Her eyes were red, almost feverish, and her face a ghostly pale.

"Mrs Hughes, I've been talking to Lady Mary about what... about what might happen if... about my leaving Downton. And Lady Mary says it's alright for me to go with her to America."

She supposed her confusion must have been evident, because Anna hurried on,

"She's breaking off her engagement with Sir Richard, you see. She's going do it tonight. And then, his Lordship suggested that she might get away from England for a while, so she's planning to stay with her Ladyship's mother in America. I think New York or New Haven."

Elsie tried to absorb this new information.

"And..." Anna continued, "and I know that I can't stay here if...well, I know I can't stay here without Mr Bates." Her voice trembled at mention of his name. "But when Lady Mary told me of her plans, I thought... I thought maybe I wouldn't have to leave her after all..."

Her speech almost over, she slowed down, drained by the effort. She looked utterly wretched and Elsie's heart ached. The poor sweet girl – having the kindness to explain herself, to share her plans, after all... _After all you've done... _

"I've always wanted to see America, so at least I've got a plan..." she finished, nodding, as if trying to convince herself.

Elsie wanted so badly to comfort her, to reassure her, but she didn't know how. The lump in her throat rose up once more.

"I suppose so," she replied, as steadily as she could, "I still can't be glad you'll be leaving here, but it's good news that you won't be casting off entirely."

"It's only if..." Anna started, and then her face crumpled, "if..."

She looked down at the floor.

"I know."

Elsie stepped towards her; the heavy weight of grief and guilt painful in her chest.

"Just so as you know, you're highly valued by all of us... both of you..."

She touched the housemaid's arm, her voice falling to almost a whisper,

"...very highly valued."

Anna began to sob uncontrollably. Tears pricked Elsie's eyes and burned the back of her throat. She scrunched up her face to stem their flow and instinctively, before she knew quite what she was doing, reached towards the weeping girl, drawing her into an embrace.

She felt Anna grip onto her; her face buried into her shoulder. There were no words. She no longer felt the need to speak. She simply patted the girl's back, gently holding her while she cried.

After a time, how long it was Elsie couldn't tell, Anna's tears subsided and she raised her head, stepping out of the embrace,

"I'm so sorry..."

Elsie too stepped back, but kept one hand on Anna's elbow. She shook her head.

"Come now," she said softly, gesturing towards the sofa, "we'll have none of that. You sit down here quietly for a while and I'll fetch us a cup of tea. Dinner will soon be over upstairs, and if what you tell me is true, it may be quite an evening."

She smiled,

"Tea will perk us both up."

Anna looked at her rather timidly.

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes. Thank you so very much."

Elsie squeezed her arm.

"No," she said, almost sternly. "No. There's no need."

**x**

The kitchen was a cheering hive of activity. Mrs Patmore and Daisy were dashing about, putting the final touches to dessert. Clouds of icing sugar hung in the air.

"Don't mind me," she told them. "I'll sort myself out. I'm just making some tea."

Fetching the crockery, however, she found that her hands were shaking. She tried to be careful, but the saucers clattered onto the tray and a wayward teaspoon clinked against the china. She put her palms on the worktop and took a deep breath.

She would need strength to lift the kettle.

"Daisy," said Mrs Patmore. "Stop that for a moment, and fill the teapot for Mrs Hughes."

Elsie looked round in surprise.

"I mustn't interrupt your work..."

The cook shrugged,

"It's no calamity. One can over-egg a pudding, so I'm told... Besides, I was fearful for the safety of the china..." She walked around the table, wiping her hands on her apron, and came to stand at Elsie's side. "Whatever's the matter? You're not usually all fingers and thumbs."

"It's not a usual day, Mrs Patmore," she answered wryly, rubbing her aching head. "It's not been a usual week."

The cook glanced at the pair of cups on the tray.

"You've got company for tea?"

"Anna."

"Ah," said Mrs Patmore, with economy yet understanding.

She seized a plate and extracted two biscuits from a cooling rack on the sideboard: the delicate lemon thins, all ready for upstairs.

"Here, take these."

Elsie hesitated,

"But don't you need them... won't it spoil our supper?"

Mrs Patmore smiled at her.

"I daresay I can spare a few... At times like this, Mrs Hughes. A little of what you fancy does you good."


End file.
